


the art of scraping through

by spacebuck



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Don't copy to another site, Endgame Fix-It, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Love Affirmations, M/M, Steve gets what's coming to him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 07:13:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18655528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacebuck/pseuds/spacebuck
Summary: The look on Steve’s face isn’t one Bucky can shake. The way he looks at the portal, at the possibilities winding from it, the way he looks at a gateway to the past and wants, they’re all the things that twist the knife that’s made its home in Bucky’s chest. He lifts a hand, rubs it over his sternum, can’t help but look down just to make sure there’s no blood.Steve’s standing with Banner, talking logistics, but he keeps looking at the portal. Bucky knows, he knows then what at least a part of Steve wants to do.He wants to look away, but he can’t risk this being the last he sees of Steve. Has to steal a moment, then another thenanother.





	the art of scraping through

**Author's Note:**

> i hated the ending (other than sam getting the shield) so i wrote a new one

The look on Steve’s face isn’t one Bucky can shake. The way he looks at the portal, at the possibilities winding from it, the way he looks at a gateway to the past and _wants_ , they’re all the things that twist the knife that’s made it's home in Bucky’s chest. He lifts a hand, rubs it over his sternum, can’t help but look down just to make sure there’s no blood.

Steve’s standing with Banner, talking logistics, but he keeps looking at the portal. Bucky knows, he _knows_ then what at least a part of Steve wants to do.

He wants to look away, but he can’t risk this being the last he sees of Steve. Has to steal a moment, then another then _another_.

He blinks, shoves his hands in his pockets, blinks again. Wonders why Steve’s gone blurred, why he can feel wet on his lashes.

Steve looks at him then. Claps Banner on the shoulder and shifts past, crosses the empty space to Bucky. He grinds to a halt, feet stumbling to a stop, and doesn’t look like he knows what to say.

“Buck,” he goes with, then stalls again. “I.”

Bucky blinks again, fixes a smile on his face. “Hi,” he says but doesn’t give Steve an out, doesn’t give him any help.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” is what Steve goes with, and Bucky bites back a snort. “Promise-”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Bucky says, and it’s sharper than he intends it to be. He bites it down.

“This is one I’ll keep,” Steve says, _swears_ , reaches out and puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. He steps closer when Bucky doesn’t say anything, and Bucky wants to lean into him, let Steve catch him and never let go.

He doesn’t.

“Sweetheart,” Steve says. “I know it’s not fair of me to ask,” he starts like Bucky would ever say no to him. “Please wait for me. I promise I’m coming back to you, just _please_ , wait for me.”

Bucky can’t say no to him, he _can’t_. “I’ll always wait for you,” he says, touching his hand to Steve’s neck, curls his fingers around the back, squeezes just a little. “’til the end-”

“-of the line, Buck,” Steve finishes. His hand slides down, grips Bucky’s fingers for a second before the portal behind him hums. He brings Bucky’s hand up, kisses his palm and Bucky curls his hand against Steve’s mouth. Trying to catch the feeling, trying to keep it, and Steve smiles like he knows. “See you soon, don’t do anything stupid,” he says, and Bucky swallows

“How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.”

 

**

 

He counts the seconds, once Steve disappears into the portal. Gets to one thousand eight hundred before he switches to counting minutes. Counts three hundred of those before a hand lands on his shoulder. It's familiar, but it’s not Steve. Bucky just hunches his shoulders up a little further.

“Barnes,” Sam says. “Bucky. C’mon.”

“He-” his voice breaks, cracked from the cold, from the silence. “He told me to wait for him,” Bucky says, and Sam goes quiet.

“How long are you gonna wait?” Sam says instead of what Bucky can imagine he wants to say.

“As long as I have to.”

 

**

Sam brings him food around the time Bucky switches to counting the hours. Doesn’t try to convince him to go, just brings him a bag that smells good, pulls him back to the bench nearby, still in sight of the portal.

“He’ll be alright,” Sam says instead, sitting back on the bench, thankfully not looking at him. “If he’s persistent enough to work out how to get you back, he’ll come back, whatever the cost.”

Bucky looks down at the food in his hand, doesn’t point out the obvious thing, glad when Sam doesn’t either. It’s time travel, it doesn’t matter how long Steve takes, he should be able to return at any time he wants.

“I,” Bucky says.

“I know,” is Sam’s quiet reply.

 

**

Three days later, and Sam’s had enough.

He doesn’t pull the blanket off Bucky’s shoulders – still where Sam had left it that first night, ends drawn around Bucky, held in place by the fold of Bucky’s arms. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t threaten, doesn’t get mad.

He just says, “Bucky, it’s time.”

Bucky looks at the portal. “What if he’s hurt?” It’s not what he’d meant to say, but now that the image is in his head his mind won’t let go of it. Flickers of Steve, bruised and battered, broken beyond what even Bucky had done to him. Of Steve lying unconscious, lying _dead_ -

He’s got to get to Steve.

He stands up, and Sam’s expression is relieved for a second before he realises Bucky isn’t heading for _him_ , he’s heading for the _portal_.

“How do I work this,” Bucky doesn’t ask, it’s a demand and he knows it is. Isn’t sorry.

“What?” Sam steps in his way, keeps deflecting when Bucky tries to get around him. It’d be funny if Bucky didn’t hate Sam in that moment.

“How do I make this work, how can I get to him?”

“Bucky,” Sam says, and Bucky turns, points a finger at the man.

“No. I need to get to him, how do I make this _work_?”

Sam grabs his arms, squeezes them. Bucky’s left arm whirs, but he keeps it down – he’s done hurting people with it, done _breaking_ people with it. Unless they’re hurting Steve, he knows Steve will always be the exception to everything. “Bucky,” he says again, and Bucky shakes his head. “ _Bucky_. You can’t- we can’t make it work from this end. Steve took the last of what made it work, we can’t send you after him.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky hisses even though he can hear the pain in Sam’s voice, can see the truth of it written on Sam’s face. “You wouldn’t let him go without backup.”

“We didn’t have a _choice_ ,” Sam says, and Bucky can’t- he can’t hear this, he can’t sit there and listen while Sam tells him they don’t have any way to get back to Steve. That there’s no way to help him if he’s hurt, retrieve him if he’s-

“Bucky,” Sam says again, and it’s softer, like he’s talking to a spooked animal. “We need your help, the world needs your help. You can’t do anything for Steve right now, but you can do something for the people he – _they_ – brought back.”

Bucky pulls himself free and Sam lets him. Grits his teeth, takes a breath, lets it out slowly. Does what Steve would do in his place, he thinks. “What do you need me to do?”

 

**

Bucky’s been counting the days. He doesn’t admit to it, but he has, scratching marks into a notebook that he keeps tucked away under the pillow that’s slowly smelling less and less of Steve. He sleeps in their bed, in a shirt that Steve used to always wear to bed. It’s stretched out, worn thin, and Bucky finds it amusing on his good days – because so is he. On other days he doesn’t think at all, just tries to _do_ , crawls into bed and wraps himself up in Steve’s things and tries not to remember the longing on Steve’s face when he’d looked at the portal he’d left through.

Tonight’s one of the memory nights, Bucky knows before he even gets up in the morning. Even so, he gets out of bed, shuffling his way through his morning routine, ignoring the call of his mattress, the temptation of trying to start early, trying to get Steve’s ‘visit’ before he’s earned it.

He grabs a coffee – Steve’s favourite mug, sue him – and stares out the window, and doesn’t think. Let’s himself drift a little, edges a little fuzzy until his alarm goes off. Then he gets moving with a frown.

It’s not that what he’s doing isn’t rewarding, he thinks as he works, hammering nails and cutting wood, putting together a frame sturdy enough for an adult, even though it’s intended for a child. The park was rundown, fallen into disarray with half the number of staff to monitor, half the number of kids to play.

It’s needed now, and Bucky’s pledged his hands to the cause, even though it's in _Queens_ and the grudges don’t die easy. He tries not to imagine Steve beside him, smiling at him. Tries not to imagine what he’d say about this. _Queens? Why Queens Buck, can’t have done something closer to home?_

 _Because_ , Bucky would say, _kids don’t care so much no more_. The ones who make friends outside their neighbourhoods, who bike and walk and run between parked cars, tourists left staring at something important, or anyone else who’s standing around long enough. It’s all fair game now, and all the kids who’d lost friends five years ago got everyone back when the Avengers did their thing. All that means is more kids on the streets, more kids out playing, but it means more need for playgrounds like this.

So Bucky cuts wood and hammers nails, kicks stuff into place when it’s stubborn and carries the things others are struggling with. He works himself to exhaustion, ‘til his muscles ache and his mind goes blank.

Bucky’s been counting the days, and it’s been almost three months since Steve left.

 

**

Bucky looks at the calendar on his phone, checking for appointments, and stumbles over his own feet when he sees the date. It’s been nearly a year, a year tomorrow. He’s long since realised that Steve’s not coming back, but in his heart of hearts, he still hopes. And if there’s any day that Steve comes back, it’s tomorrow, and deep down he knows that it’s really his last chance.

Bucky didn’t want to give up on him, but. _But_.

He goes to bed that night with his heart heavy and light at the same time, fluttering in his stomach meaning he can’t sleep. He tosses, turns, watches as his clock ticks closer and closer to midnight.

He blinks, looks up. The bedside clock reads 12:04.

He’s not sure what he expected, honestly, but he’s disappointed. No magician handwavey bullshit, no sudden portal appearing, no Steve.

He rolls over, pulls his blankets up high to his neck, and tries not to cry. The pillow feels wet anyway.

In the morning Sam comes in. Bucky knows it’s Sam by the way his steps fall, the way he hesitates at the door before barging in anyway.

“Barnes,” he says like he hasn’t been calling him _Bucky_ for months. “You gonna mope all day?”

Bucky snorts, pulls his blankets higher. Sam crosses his room, sets something on his dresser, and pauses for a second like he’s waiting for Bucky to say something.

He surprises himself when he says “Sam,” and by the breath Sam takes he hadn’t expected it either. “I know you lost him too.” The words hurt more than Bucky expected. “Lost more than just him. I-”

“I’ve had a lot more practice in getting left behind.”

Bucky lifts his head, rolls half onto his back, and looks up at Sam. He’s shadowed, the lack of light in the room hiding everything. He opens his mouth and stalls out, but Sam just squeezes his shoulder and turns, pauses in the doorway. His broad shoulders hang a little bit. “Do you want the door closed?”

Bucky unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth and manages a “yes.”

The door closing sounds final. The end of an era, the era of Steve losing Bucky, and the start of the era of Bucky losing Steve.

Bucky sniffs and rolls back onto his side.

He dozes, he thinks. He’s usually pretty good at working out when he’s dissociating and this doesn’t feel like that. It’s just a slow series of blinks, each one pushing him further and further through the day.

Its the fourth time he’s woken when he hears the click of a door downstairs. It barely registers now, Sam coming and going, but in the quiet of his mind, it’s loud and obvious.

Bucky closes his eyes and pulls his blankets over his head, hoping Sam will leave him alone.

He must slip again because the next thing he knows is someone perching on the edge of his bed. It’s easy to assume Sam but Sam’s never done this, so he slows his breathing, keeps his eyes closed.

A hand on his shoulder, warm. Heavy. _Familiar_. A voice that Bucky knows deep in his heart of hearts, soft and cautious. “Sweetheart?”

Bucky gets it now. He gets it, he’s still asleep and his brain is giving him the one thing he could want for.

It's going to hurt more, he thinks, if he goes along with it. If he pretends its real. He doesn’t think he can say no.

So he turns onto his back slowly, looks up at Steve, and tries not to cry more than he already has.

He’s dishevelled, is the first thing Bucky notices about him. There’s a cut on his cheekbone, and he’s got smudges of dirt on his face like he’s hit the ground a few times. His eyes are dark, shadowed, the weight of the years showing in the one place Steve could never hide. He looks _real_ , and Bucky’s afraid to touch him, afraid that his hand is going to sink straight through.

“Steve,” he says, not proud of the way his voice cracks.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Steve says, voice softer than before, and one big hand cups Bucky’s cheek. He’s still wearing his gloves and the material is rough against Bucky’s cheek. He _feels_ real, and Bucky’s breath hitches, his heart beats on a _what if_. “I’m sorry I took so long.”

Bucky detangles a hand from the blankets, immediately pulls at Steve’s glove and Steve immediately lifts his hand so Bucky can pull it free. He tosses it somewhere, doesn’t care, just curls his hand over the back of Steve’s and kisses Steve’s palm. There’s a scar he doesn’t know there, up alongside the shield calluses, and he clings to that, takes a breath, and speaks.

“Tell me you’re real, please tell me you’re here.”

Steve’s breath hitches, and he breathes out, “Bucky, baby, it’s me, I’m here, I’m real, I’m back.”

Bucky shoves himself upright without letting go of Steve’s hand. Steve’s starting to blur and Bucky blinks the tears away.

“Steve,” he says, then balls his right hand into a fist and punches him in the mouth.

Steve falls back a bit, looking stunned, and Bucky’s hand stings from the contact. It _stings_ and Steve’s _real_.

“What- Bucky!” Steve gets out, cradling his face, and Bucky leans forward, grabs Steve’s wrist, pulls him in.

“Fuck you, Rogers,” Bucky bites out before biting his lower lip, kissing him hard, hard enough that Steve’s gasping, hard enough to feel the press of Steve’s teeth through his lips.

Steve gets with the plan pretty quickly, lips parting, taking over. The gloveless hand curls up into Bucky’s hair drags down to his cheek and Bucky can’t hold back the noise he makes, almost a whimper but without substance.

There’s little warning before Bucky’s dragged off the mattress and onto Steve’s lap. It’s warm, and he leans into Steve further despite the stupid suit he’s wearing, like a hard shell over his chest, digging into the backs of Bucky’s thighs.

Grabbing at Steve’s shoulders for balance, Bucky claws his fingers into Steve’s shoulders, looking for purchase and finding pretty much nothing. “Take it off,” he gasps, “I need to- take it _off_.”

Steve’s hand leaves his waist and pulls at something at his shoulder, and the chest plate falls away. He shoves it away, lets the back plate fall where it falls, and pulls Bucky in again, kissing him softer this time. Bucky grabs at the soft shirt Steve’s left in, pulls at the neck, stretching it until he can get his hands on skin, hot with _life_. He digs his fingers into Steve’s shoulders, gasps into Steve’s mouth, and it’s too much, it’s too _much_. He pulls back to press his forehead to Steve’s shoulder, breathing sharp and ragged, and he can feel the way he’s shaking, fine tremors running through him, his arm humming and recalibrating with the shifting of plates.

Steve’s arms are tight around him and he rocks them both, presses his lips to Bucky’s hair. He hums, strokes his hand up Bucky’s back, whispers, “I know, I know I’m sorry sweetheart, I’m so sorry Bucky,” over and over until the words lose meaning, just fall on Bucky’s ears as background noise.

It’s a long time before Bucky can let go.

 

**

When Bucky wakes it’s slow, wrapped in warmth. It sinks into him, soaks through him, draws him from sleep with a gentle hand in his hair. He smiles to himself, still half asleep, and snuggles deeper into the warmth surrounding him.

There’s a press to the top of his head like a kiss, and Bucky lifts his head, blinks blearily upwards.

Steve’s smiling down at him and Bucky’s stomach flutters, breath catching in his throat. “Steve.”

“Buck,” Steve says, warm but crisp like he’s been awake this whole time. He probably has, if Bucky’s honest with himself. Steve’s always been one to stare at Bucky, he’s caught him at it enough. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a bus,” Bucky mumbles, hides a yawn against Steve’s chest. Steve kisses the top of his head again, then there’s the feeling of something brushing through his hair, Steve’s fingers, probably. “I missed you.” It’s an admission spoken into the fabric of Steve’s shirt, into the space between them.

“Tell that to my jaw,” Steve says, and Bucky nearly cries again. He’s _missed_ him, his beautiful, snarky, _sunshine_ of a man.

“Sorry,” he says, and his voice is thick. He blinks and his lashes are wet. “You kinda deserved it.”

Steve squeezes the arm around Bucky’s waist in a tight hug. “I did everything I could,” he protests, though he sounds like he’s not going to give it too much effort.

Bucky finally lifts his head, looks up at Steve. His hair’s sticking up at odd angles, all of it except the side that’s been flattened by a pillow. He’s still got dirt on his face, though half of it’s been rubbed off onto the pillowcase. The cut from earlier is mostly healed now, just a thin pink line across Steve’s cheek to say it was even there. There’s no evidence from Bucky’s punch left on his jaw, on his cheek, darkening his lips. He’s beautiful, and Bucky _missed_ him like nothing else. “I spent a year learning to live without you,” he says, and Steve’s breath catches.

“I know,” Steve says, presses forward and kisses him and Bucky lets him. “Sam told me.”

“Part of me hated you,” Bucky admits into the space between them. “The part that wasn’t sure you were dead.”

Steve’s breath stops for a second, then picks up again faster. He strokes the hand in Bucky’s hair down to Bucky’s chin, nudges his head up to meet Bucky’s gaze and Bucky lets him look, lets him touch. “I thought you’d stayed behind,” Bucky finally gets out. “I thought you’d gone back to the life you’d had, _we’d_ had. Before the war, before everything.”

“Bucky,” Steve says and his voice is firm, just a hair shy of his Captain America voice. “I would never leave you by choice.” There’s something in his voice that settles Bucky’s heart, that pulls all of the anger out of him. The certainty of it, maybe. The way Steve speaks like it’s the immutable truth, like nothing on heaven or earth would ever make him change his mind. “My GPS broke and I had to find another way back. It wasn’t as accurate, and I missed the date by more than I expected." The explanation soothes something in him, the wounded part of his soul finally giving in, finally  _believing_. "I will tear down everything on this earth and every other to get back to you, you hear me? _Nothing_ could keep me from your side.”

He pushes in, then, up into the heat of Steve’s mouth, kisses him and kisses him and _kisses_ him until Steve’s rolling them, blanketing Bucky’s body in warmth.

Steve pulls back, but only to press a kiss to the corner of Bucky’s mouth, the dimple on his chin. Bucky holds on, can’t do anything else but let Steve do what he pleases, and Steve knows it by the smile on his face, knows it by the way he moves down, slow, sucking kisses making their way down Bucky’s throat.

There’s no direction to it, no drive to do anything more, and Bucky’s happy to push his fingers up in Steve’s hair and let Steve do as he pleases. There’s the sharp press of teeth against his pulse, then another wet kiss, worrying at the spot like Steve needs to see the results of his attention, needs to see that Bucky’s _his_ , and Bucky’s not complaining.

Instead, he arches his back a little more, gives Steve a little more room, and spreads his legs to let Steve settle between them. He’s glad in that moment that he didn’t get the version of the serum Steve did, that he’ll be carrying Steve’s marks for a little longer than the few hours Steve keeps his. He needs it, now, needs to be able to see that Steve’s here with him.

Slowly Steve meanders his way back up, presses a soft kiss to Bucky’s slack lips. “Baby,” he whispers, and Bucky makes a noise deep in his throat. “I love you. I will spend the rest of my life reminding you of that fact, the rest of _our_ lives trying to convince you it’s true.”

Bucky tilts his chin up to catch Steve’s lips again, kisses him slow, soft. When their lips part he speaks, needing to say it as much as he needed to hear it. “I love you right back. Nothing will keep me from you as long as there’s a place for me at your side.”

Steve speaks before the last words have fallen from Bucky’s lips, vows it with all the conviction he has. “At my side, on my six, there’s a place for you anywhere you want to be.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](http://spacebuck.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/spacebck) if you're feeling either


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